


To A Friend Whose Work Has Come to Failure

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Gen, post-ep tag, season 3 ep 1961
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lights of the dashboard illuminated his mother’s disapproval, but Peter ignored her and searched for Nathan's eyes. “Grab me a burger and basket of fries.” Nathan looked like he wanted to protest but Peter shook his head and walked away before anything could start. Peter zipped up his jacket as the cars’ high beams withdrew themselves from the premises of Coyote Sands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To A Friend Whose Work Has Come to Failure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [rare pairs meme](http://cruiscin-lan.livejournal.com/78046.html). Title and inspiration comes from an Anne Sexton poem [To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Triumph](http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton/638).

Peter rapped gently against the window of the passenger seat until the glass descended.

“Go on, I’ll catch up. The diner’s only a few miles away,” Peter said.

The lights of the dashboard illuminated his mother’s disapproval, but Peter ignored her and searched for Nathan's eyes. “Grab me a burger and basket of fries.” Nathan looked like he wanted to protest but Peter shook his head and walked away before anything could start. Peter zipped up his jacket as the cars’ high beams withdrew themselves from the premises of Coyote Sands. He stood there, alone, but not not absolutely so. He knew Mohinder lingered somewhere inside the building but outside the dozens of unearthed bodies filled Peter with an overwhelming sense of regret and sadness. Peter sucked in a lungful of the chilled air and strode towards the door and peered inside, pushing thoughts of small bones and lost memories from his mind.

Mohinder sat on an old overturned milk crate next to the only open window left in the building, paging through a file on his lap. Peter couldn’t bother masking his approach when every floorboard creaked, so he didn’t. He nudged an old leg of a chair out of the way to better announce his presence to Mohinder who turned briefly to look at him before returning to the file, shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to stay warm.

“Go away,” Mohinder stated.

Peter took a moment to survey the ramshackle building that had long since resembled a summer dormitory. His mother’s estranged sister and her distress-ridden storms only contributed to the dilapidated state. Where there used to be windows were beams that had collapsed inward, leaving only slivers for the night’s beaming moonlight to weasel through.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and walked towards Mohinder, trying to figure out the best way to sound reasonable even though he knew how hard the evening’s history lesson was on his friend.

“You can’t sit here all night,” he said quietly.

“I have to understand what he was thinking. None of this makes sense. I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought. It’s in the past. He was his own man and made his own decisions. What you do now is all that matters.”

Mohinder looked up from the file and shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

Peter’s chuckle was drier than he expected. “I don’t understand what it’s like to live a shadow? C’mon. You’ve met my family. I have parents and a brother who've made epically bad decisions when they thought they were doing the right thing. For the _‘greater good.’_ ”

Mohinder abruptly stood and threw the file on the floor. Peter shifted his weight uneasily, surprised by the sharp display.

“ _No_ —” he said, breezing past Peter and pulling something out from beneath a pile of rubble Peter couldn’t quite distinguish from the shadows. “There has to be more. My father used to keep meticulous personal notes about his research.”

“Maybe he didn’t back then. Your father was a young man at that time… Maybe he wanted to forget what happened here like everyone else.”

The silhouette of Mohinder’s head snapped up at that. “I can’t accept that. The very point of his book was to _prove his theories_ , prove the existence of people like Alice Shaw and your mother… If he’d already been in the country, if he’d already known about these people. No… Something is missing. I know it,” Mohinder said, standing with a new pile of papers in hand. He pivoted quickly on a heel and nearly ran into Peter as he went back to his place at the window.

“Mohinder, I—”

“Go _away,_ ” Mohinder said once more, though there was no threatening undertone.

Peter went to the box where Mohinder had plucked the files. “Where did these come from?”

“They were under the floorboards in one of the other buildings. It was dumb luck that I tripped and fell hard enough to crack the board and discovered it.”

Peter grabbed a stack of papers and file and sat on the floor beside Mohinder, his back pressed against the wall beneath the open window, snowy white light spilling onto the malignant-colored file. Mohinder glanced down at him and Peter looked back, jaw set with determination not to let Mohinder sit and stew all by himself. It was as if Mohinder had forgotten everything they’d gone through together. They were both there at the beginning, when they were both so hopelessly naive about powers, about the world and everything in between. Peter didn’t even blink until Mohinder looked back to the file in his lap.

Peter carefully scanned the ill-preserved pages as best he could in the moonlight. They sat in silence except for the shuffle of papers until Mohinder closed the folder and let it slide between his knees to the floor. Mohinder turned at an angle and his hand reappeared with the film can Peter gave him earlier.

“Do you think,” Mohinder started, but didn’t finish.

“What?”

“Do you think if my father was in the country in 1961, there might be other record of his stay? A student or work visa on file somewhere...”

“Maybe,” Peter said and Mohinder’s shoulders dropped at the uncertainty.

“Not that it really matters. I know he was here. All of this is proof enough, I just don’t know how he got here or why or what he was thinking and doing when he signed up to do all of this,” Mohinder said, turning the circular film can over in his hands.

“Project Icarus,” Mohinder read in a low murmur and tapped the edge of the can, his ring clacking against the dull metal.

“Greek mythology, right?” Peter said, knowing full well it was but also understanding the satisfaction Mohinder felt when he explained things.

“Yes. Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun and plummeted to his death because his wax wings melted.”

“He was with his father, trapped and trying to escape off an island, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. His father was cautious and warned Icarus to be careful but he didn’t listen and that led to his demise.”

“Sounds like Icarus heard his father but made his own decision instead,” Peter said quietly.

“The wrong decision,” Mohinder murmured, dropping the film on the ground, the loud clank it made quickly absorbed by the concave ceiling. Peter wanted to voice his concern about staying but there was no telling how much material was scattered throughout this building. He could already hear Mohinder’s adamant refusal so he drew his shoulders together and fiddled with the collar of his jacket, deciding to stay with Mohinder for as long as he needed.

“What else was there for him to do, if they were trapped? Just sit there forever and rot?” Peter asked hopefully with enough curiosity and logic to prod at Mohinder’s intellect.

Mohinder turned on the box he was sitting on and leaned on what was left of the windowsill, staring out at the macabre field.

“I don’t know, Peter. It’s a story,” Mohinder said, words knotted with irritation and Peter sat idle for a moment, staring at the numbers from some dietary menu on the page he held, trying to think of another way to come about conversationally.

“He could have easily played the safe route and never known what it was like to fly. But then he would have never experienced that high he got when he did take off,” Peter pointed out.

Mohinder sat up and looked at Peter and there was still enough moonlight shading his face that Peter could see the corners of his mouth turned upward in bemusement. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Peter resisted grinning and shrugged. “Maybe.”

It appeared as if Mohinder was going to smile back in earnest, but the moment came and left because he made a disgruntled sound and pillowed his head in his arms. Peter patted his knee reassuringly.

“It doesn’t matter what your dad’s motivations were in 1961 or three years ago. What matters is how you live your life and what you do _now_.”

Peter reached for the film can and rose onto his knees, elbowing Mohinder for space to hang out the window. Mohinder sat up and brushed the hair from his face and regarded Peter with lackluster belief. Peter sighed and slung his arms over the edge, the film dangling loosely from his grip.

“Who knows what’s on this. Maybe it has the answers you’re looking for. Maybe it doesn’t, but whatever is here, I don’t think it or anything else going to make you truly feel better. You have to do that yourself,” he said, handing the film back to Mohinder.

Mohinder took the film back and stared at it so long, Peter thought he’d bore holes through it if he had that power. He politely elbowed Mohinder out of his reverie and tilted his head at the man. Mohinder rested his head against the window frame.

“I came to New York to find out what happened to my father. When I realized that his work was actually valid, that there were people with genetic abilities out there, I felt… “ Mohinder craned his neck to look at the sky and he ran a hand through his hair, letting the other arm dangle over the sill with the film. “I felt like I was a part of him for the first time in my whole life. Part of something bigger. I wanted to help him by completing his work. I wanted to help people understand who they were. Save the cheerleader and the world. We saved the cheerleader and saved the world. But it’s not the same anymore. Now it’s the government, Pineherst… the Company history…Alice Shaw and my father 40 years ago. Sylar’s _not_ Patient Zero. What is all this? None of it makes sense,” he said. Mohinder turned the film can over to the faceless side and Peter watched him trace an invisible godsend symbol across the metal. Peter shivered.

“But now I’ve done terrible things. If my fa—”

“You’re a good man,” Peter said emphatically, making sure to cut off any sort of thinking like that. “What your father _did_ in the past does not change that,” Peter reiterated. Mohinder’s jaw moved as if he swallowed or about to speak, but no nothing came out. Peter took that as a sign to go on.

“You’re a good man and you want to do the right thing. Deep down you know that. Sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of who we are when things happen and we then make bad decisions and snap judgments,” he said, glancing back out at the dug up field, in a place where his mother made her own mistakes. He cleared his throat. “And that time I am speaking from personal experience. I know you can, too,” he said. Peter had leaped off buildings, exploded, been chased, shot at and tortured a dozen times over but nothing had surprised and terrified him more than waking up to Doctor Mohinder Suresh hovering above his strapped form with a syringe in hand, not sounding like the Mohinder Suresh he sought out in Brooklyn such a short time ago.

Mohinder nodded and pulled the cuffs of his jacket down to better cover exposed wrists from the cold and Peter wondered if he was trying to hide skin lesions that weren’t there anymore.

“I hate not knowing,” Mohinder said, fingers tightening around the film can that he drew back over the windowsill and balanced on his knee.

“I know,” Peter said. “But you know more than you did before.”

“The new pieces simply don’t fit. Not yet, anyway,” he said.

Peter picked up one of the discarded file folders from their feet and stood. “How about I go next door and see if I can find any other boxes?”

Mohinder set the film can down again and stood next to Peter.

“I’m sorry. This is something I have to do myself,” he said. “For myself,” he added.

Peter looked about the disheveled room before returning to the not-so-empty desert. “Are you sure? Another set of eyes might help.”

Mohinder’s shape ebbed in and out of focus as Mohinder hesitated retracing his steps back into the darkened interior. Peter followed the sound of Mohinder’s footsteps and rustling of papers and boxes. When Mohinder turned back around, there was a flashlight shining in Peter’s eyes. Mohinder quickly angled the light away from Peter’s face and it took a second or Peter’s vision to adjust.

“No. Go have dinner with your family. Plan on reclaiming your life and doing what you need to do.”

White dots were still swimming around Mohinder’s extended arm when Peter clasped it and shook his hand.

“You’re always welcome at our table,” Peter said, blinking the fuzziness away.

“I know,” Mohinder replied, words tight with emotion.

Peter pulled Mohinder into a hug and patted his back. “Good luck,” he said into Mohinder’s ear and broke the embrace. The smile on Mohinder’s face was distant but Peter saw it in the dim light and smiled back.

“Thank you,” Mohinder said and squeezed his shoulder before sweeping past him, his flashlight snaking with unfaltering resolve over the mess, searching for answers that Peter wasn’t sure he was going to find.

Peter exited the building without looking back because he knew it wasn’t a goodbye. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and walked over and past the unmarked graves until he bent at and launched himself into the sky, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to leave any of this behind.


End file.
